School Days
by SexyRemusLupin
Summary: Ever wondered about Sherlock and Mycroft's schooling? Who weaned Sherlock's intelligence? Well, read on for a year with Sherlock at his school...will it be a good or bad year for him?
1. School Again

**This is my first try at a Sherlock fanfic, so please don't flame! It is detailing a year of Sherlock's childhood, and I will try to update as often as possible. Please review! Thank you x**

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><p>Two boys sat alone in a large, white room. One was about eight, with short black curls and piercing blue eyes and the other perhaps fifteen with smooth brown hair and skin lightly smattered with the typical teenage spots.<p>

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" The older boy asked the younger. Sherlock, the younger, was staring intently at the small, plain blue rug on the floor.

"Mother bought a new rug. Yesterday there was a darker blue stain in the corner, and it hasn't been washed off – I looked closely and the stain was embedded into the undermat. Why did she buy a new one when she could simply have left the old one with the stain? No one would notice unless they stared at it."

The older boy, Mycroft, sighed. His weirdo little brother was _deducing _again.

"Oh, shut up Sherlock."

A brief, uncomfortable silence lay like a coating of dust over the room for a few moments until the door opened and a tall, bony woman with fine brown hair and a sour expression walked in.

"Hello, boys."

"Mother, why did you buy a new rug?" Sherlock carefully stood up from his previous seat on the white tiled floor, and brushed himself off. He wore a crisp white shirt, a plain red tie, black blazer with a red ribbon-type edging and black trousers, and looked very much his part of the private school student.

The woman sighed. "Just go and put these in your trunk, Sherlock." She thrust a large paper bag at Sherlock, and watched him closely as he lightly walked upstairs.

"Mother, why is Sherlock so odd?"

The woman looked sadly at Mycroft for a few moment before smiling, "Is your trunk all packed for St John's? We'll be leaving in an hour."

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><p>St John's was a private school for boys and girls aged between 3 and 18, with some additional University courses. Both Sherlock and Mycroft attended, and both enjoyed it for different reasons. Mycroft liked it because his friend Greg Lestrade also attended, and because he was constantly surrounded by other people his age who he could discuss his worries with, and find they felt the same. It was all very relaxing. Sherlock liked it for the lessons: Chemistry, Physics, Biology, French, German – and when you were six, you got to pick an additional vocational subject to learn. Sherlock had picked codes – a subject taught at no public schools, only private. He loved codes, mainly because of the obvious underlying symmetry of the codes, the beauty of the numbers behind it all...<p>

The uniform was nice as well. The junior school's uniform was black trousers, a white shirt, black leather shoes, a tie in your house's colour and a blazer trimmed with the same colour. The senior school uniform was a white polo shirt (with all buttons done up, of course), a jumper in your house colour, black or your house colour trousers and black leather shoes. Because they were brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock were both in the same house: Shark. The three houses were Shark, Whale and Dolphin, with the house colours of red, blue and yellow respectively.

Mycroft and Sherlock had both started attending St. John's when they were three, and would continue so until they were eighteen. Their father had died shortly before Sherlock's birth, and Grace, their mother, had sank into a deep depression. Mycroft already attended St John's as a day student, so it was all to easy to pack him off there permanently, and when Sherlock was three send him there as well.

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><p>1984, the 1st of September. Mycroft would be entering Year 11, and Sherlock Year 4. Grace gave Mycroft a pat on the shoulder, and Sherlock a small smile. Both boys shared one immense personality trait: they hated being touched. It unnerved them.<p>

"Goodbye, boys."

And so she left. Mycroft, as a new prefect (prefects were students in years 11, 12 and 13, and he had been picked), had to find their head of house and get a list of dormitories, so that any student who needed to know which dorm they were in could ask a prefect. He and a girl called Melanie, who was the female prefect for their house and year, quickly got their lists and started to direct people.

_Room 17 – Year 4 Dormitory_

_Students:_

_Abbot, Archie_

_Carter, Milton_

_Holmes, Sherlock_

_Richards, Robert_

"Room seventeen, Sherlock."

"I know. Last year I was in room 15 and the year before 13, so it was natural to assume that I am in 17 this year. Obviously."

The boy gripped his trunk in one hand and suitcase in the other and walked to his new dormitory, bot caring that his brother was rather angrily staring after him.

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><p>The dormitory was a pleasant room, with two sets of bunk beds. It was painted a pleasant light blue, and the floor had a deep velvety blue coloured carpet on it. Four writing desks sat in the room, each with a small box on them. Two large wardrobes sat against one of the walls, with a window in the wall in the gap. Under the window were four book shelves, each already equip with the school books that each child would need (each shelf was labelled with a name) and a bible. The room was one of the nicer ones. Sherlock was quick to unpack: all he had were his clothes, a mass of books and the bag which his mother had shoved at him earlier that day, which contained a dark, sticky cake, a bottle of lemonade and a large bag of pick-and-mix sweets. A kind of peace offering – herself and Sherlock had had an argument about how many books he was taking which ended with her slapping him and storming out. Just as Sherlock had finished, the door burst open, and there stood Archie, Milton and Robert, all scarlet faced and snorting with laughter. The faint smell of mud followed them into the room.<p>

"We're with you, _again?_" moaned Archie angrily, kicking one of the legs of the nearest bed. He didn't like Sherlock, for several reasons. The main one being that Sherlock had caught him stealing a bar of chocolate from the kitchen and had told on him when he refused to put it back. Milton and Robert, being his faithful friends, had naturally also taken against the boy.

"Seeing as I have unpacked, I'd assume that that was fairly obvious. The situation doesn't delight me any more than it does you."

Archie was a big lad for eight, with a rounded stomach but hard fists and sharp kicks. Sherlock had fallen foul to him several times, and had suffered a beating at his hands at least five times in his five years at the school.

"Shut your mouth, Holmes."

"Your violence won't get you anywhere, Archie." Sherlock pleasantly replied as he placed his dark green pyjamas under his pillow. A sudden hand took hold of his collar and dragged him backwards, making him fall back onto the floor and hit his head hard on the other bunkbed.

"You're such an idiot, Holmes. If you'd just play nicely then none of this would be necessary." spat Archie. With that, the three stormed once more from the room, leaving Sherlock to pick himself up. Delightful, another year of those idiots.

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><p>Or would it be?<p>

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>


	2. Archie Abbot

Sherlock sat up. A gush of sickeningly clotted blood oozed from his nose – when he had fallen, it had somehow connected with his knee. He gingerly touched the bridge of his nose: it was broken. Sighing, he went to find his house matron.

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><p>Matron Jones was not a woman to mess with. At well over six foot, she would have made a tremendous impression anyway. But she was also incredibly wide, with a voluptuous bosom and lots of wide slopes. Despite her bulk, she was a stunning woman: a short, thick brown bob, sparkling green eyes and lightly freckled skin. Her voice was deep and booming, with its Scottish roots strongly embedded. She was loved by all of Shark house, despite her cupboard filled with foul tasting medicine.<p>

"Matron?"

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm not surprised. What is it this time – broken arm, broken leg, bleeding lip?"

"Broken nose, Matron."

A deep sigh sounded, and the woman appeared from behind a screen in the corner of the room.

"Come here, you silly boy."

Sherlock, who was lightly pinching the end of his nose, sat on the treatment bed. The woman fumbled with some things in a cupboard, before producing several things. She gave Sherlock an icepack wrapped in a thin chequered towel, which he firmly placed against his nose, ignoring the agonising pain in his nose. Then she poured some nasty, white syrup onto a spoon and forced it into his mouth. It tasted foul, and left a film in his mouth even after he had swallowed it. Then, she took some gauze, adjusted where Sherlock was holding the ice and packed it into his nose, causing him to feel an odd feeling as he lost the ability to breath through it.

"That should do it. Now for the head of house report. How did it happen?"

The woman took a pad of long strips of paper, and started to fill it in as Sherlock replied to her questions.

_Name of student: Sherlock Holmes_

_Age: 8 years_

_Year: Year 4_

_Reason for Visit: Suspected broken nose._

_Treatment: Ice pack applied to area, pain medication given, gauze placed in nose._

_Injury caused: Other student, Archie Abbot, threw Sherlock to the floor. His nose smashed into his knee, breaking it._

_Treated by: Matron Jones_

_Date: 1st September_

"Archie again?" Matron commented disapprovingly as Sherlock unwillingly gave some of the details of his attack.

Sherlock refrained from answering back.

"Well, chickadee, just take this along to Shark house office."

"Thank you, Matron."

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><p>As Sherlock walked to his house office, he was surrounded by other students. <em>Freak, retard, remedial, spack. Twit, snob, pompous. <em>Words had never hurt Sherlock: he was used to them. Before he started school it was his mother and brother. Here it was the other students. No big deal. The insults were all so mind-numbingly prosaic they didn't even register any more. He soon found the large red door, and rapped on it.

"Enter!" a stately voice called.

William Storkey, head of Shark house, was not a man to cross. He was a sadist. Even for the tiniest infraction, he would whip out his cane, or his slipper. Most students despised him, or were terrified of him – except for Sherlock. The two shared the same sense of dry, sharp humour, and Mr. Storkey was the codes teacher. Plus, Sherlock was used to both emotional and physical pain from his mother, so sharp remarks and boxed ears made no impression on her. All in all a figure of admiration to Sherlock.

"Holmes, why does it not surprise me that you are here already?" The large, porky man sighed as the skinny boy entered.

"Hello, sir. Nice to see you to."

"Don't get smart with me, boy. What do you want?"

"House report." Was Sherlock's reply. He handed over the slip of paper.

"ABBOT!" bellowed the man. He tossed the slip into the bin and sharply said to Sherlock.

"Stay there."

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><p>Sherlock knew what was going to happen, and despite what Archie had done to him, he didn't wish to stay. That was why he quietly allowed himself to slip into his mind palace. A place where he could ignore the rest of the world, be cut off from his feelings. Recently, it had gotten easier and easier to go there. He thought longingly of his violin as he slipped away.<p>

Even Sherlock couldn't completely cut himself off from the world. He tried to freeze his feelings, but he still felt that gently creeping feeling of regret at telling the truth when he heard the swish of the cane.

"You can go, Abbot, Holmes."

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><p>Later that night, in the Shark common room, Mycroft made his way over to Sherlock.<p>

"I heard what happened and I assume that you are okay."

"Yes, I am."

"Good." There was a short pause, then, "I do worry about you Sherlock. Even if you are a total tit, you're still my brother."

"Yes. Well, goodbye."

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><p>The next morning Sherlock awoke where he usually did after a rough night: in the common room, under the sofa. He slept there whenever he wanted to avoid a beating from those in his dorm. Yawning, he shuffled out from under the sofa and looked around. The room was empty. The clock said half six. He could probably sneak into the dorm and get his washing things, and his satchel with his books in. Quickly, he ran through the silent corridors to the dorm and swept around it as lightly as a ghost. He even managed to change into fresh, uncrumpled uniform. His timetable was pretty much the same as last year, but this year he would be taking the sciences with the Year 9 classes because of his extreme intelligence in those subjects.<p>

Breakfast was a plain affair: a bowl of porridge, a slice of toast and a cup of tea. He was the first one down nary a couple of the few under-fives who boarded full time. Once he had eaten and quickly wiped his face in the after-meal wash room, he went to the library. The library was his haven, his most beloved place. Thousands upon thousands of books, comfortable armchairs and a soft, sweet librarian called Mrs Brooks who would often sneak him boiled sweets. He briefly greeted her before finding his favourite book: Swiss Family Robinson. The rich storyline of the family of six, their two dogs and their monkey intrigued him, and he could read it in one go without even stopping for a glass of water. He found his favourite spot to sit in, and settled down. Of course, his favourite spot wasn't a chair, it was a shelf. If you climbed up one of the bookshelves to the very top of the room, you'd find a lovely broad empty shelf. Sherlock had discovered it age five, and adopted it as his own. Up there he kept a cushion to plonk under his backside, a blanket for when it was nippy, a bottle which he constantly refilled with different drinks – lemonade, ginger beer, orange juice, water – and a huge jar of sweets. He was quite content on a Saturday to sit and read and eat his sweets and drink his drink.

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><p>An hour later, it was time for morning assembly. This was the only thing that boys and girls were split up for. Boys assembly's were lead by the elderly, fairly stern headmaster Mr Strafford, or sir to everyone who had a brain, while the girls had assembly's with Miss Hutch, the headmistress, who was Mrs Brooks the librarian's maiden sister and just as sweet as she. Sherlock found himself a seat, and sat, watching the others file in in clusters. He saw his own brother lope towards the back with his friend Greg. Archie, looking rather subdued, sat as far away from Sherlock as possible.<p>

"Welcome back, young one's! As you know, this is a brand new year at this school which brings brand new opportunities. The Year 9's will make their options for the GCE exams, and the Year 11's for their O Levels. The little one's will pick their vocational subject. A fresh start. Sadly, several points have already been lost by all three houses: Shark have lost 20 for bullying, Whale have lost 10 for mobbing about in the dinner cue and Dolphin five for talking after lights out – not a good start, eh boys? Now, please stand for prayers."

Sherlock truly hated prayers. He wasn't religious. He had always found the idea of a 'greater being' improbable, and had held this opinion since he was a small child, but if he didn't proclaim his love for God as loudly as the next boy he'd get the cane on the spot.

And so, the story of the missing money begins.

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>


	3. The First Case Begins

The first few days of terms passed dreadfully slowly to Sherlock. 6 lessons, 6 hours of learning every day, was fine. But it was everything else that was abominable. Each child, no matter their age, was required to face one hour at least per week of 'after school activity'. Whether it be chess club, swimming team or anything else, it was required. But all of these activities were social activities, activities where he'd have to work with and talk to other people between the ages of 3 and 18. He dithered between choices before eventually picking 'story writing club'. Much easier than joining the cricket team, or going into a large pit filled with dirty water with lots of other sweating, urinating, hairy children.

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><p>When he arrived at the library for the club, he was surprised to see his own brother there. "Mycroft."<p>

"Sherlock."

The two looked at each other for a few moments, before Mycroft commented, "One of the Whale prefects is intending to go around debagging some of the juniors, so watch out."

The two sat at the same table.

"Now, children, once you've got some paper could you please write a little story about when you were younger, in fact your earliest memory?"

"Yes, miss." was the uniform response.

_My earliest memory, as far as I am aware, took place when I was two years old. Myself, my mother and my then-nine year old brother were in a shop in July – my brother's summer holidays – when I decided I wanted some small sweet. My mother refused, and at the time I was a rather obstinate person. I threw a tantrum, and was dragged from the shop by my mortified mother. I remember Mycroft slapping me and telling me that if I hadn't have been so stupid he might have gotten a comic. The shop was a news agent's, as far as I am aware, and it was a Tuesday. My mother was in a light floral print dress, I was in some foul khaki shorts and a T-shirt and Mycroft was in a pair of long trousers and a matching T-shirt to mine._

Sherlock checked over his writing (written in his elegant script), corrected a small spelling mistake and carefully read his brother's upside down writing.

**My first memory was when I was about three or four – I started here as a day student when I was five, so it was before then. My father was still alive, and he was trying to teach me how to play chess. I was dreadful at it at first, and eventually, in a rage, I picked up the board and threw it into the wall. It was glass, and it shattered. I remember that my father wasn't angry, just upset. He took me up to my bedroom, and placed me sitting on my bed to wait for my mother. He hugged me, and I remember that I felt loved for one of the last times in my life.**

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><p>In the middle of the club, however, the head of Dolphin house burst in.<p>

"A mixed gender assembly, £25 has gone missing from the headmaster's study!"

They were immediately lead to the large dining hall, in which the dining benches had been hastily moved to provide enough seating for everyone. Both the headmaster and headmistress were up on stage, and both looked grave.

"As I am sure you are aware, 25 pounds have gone from my desk. The money must have been taken either at night or at lunch time. If whoever took it admits now and returns the money, your parents will not be informed. However, if no one admits to it all parents will be informed, and every single student will receive a punishment to ensure that the thief gets their just desserts." The headmaster proclaimed to the school. The girls looked nervously to each other, and a few of the tiny little three year old children started to snivel. The room was silent for a full five minutes.

"Right then. Every parent will be informed. Children under six, that is the extent of your trouble. However, every child six and above will receive a detention every single night for half an hour cleaning the bathrooms, toilets and scrubbing the floors until the guilty comes forward. Remember, this is your choice, not ours."

With that, the man swept away, closely followed by the woman. As soon as they were out of earshot, the groaning and complaining began. Sherlock didn't understand what the fuss was: doing a repetitive activity means that you can wonder into your own thoughts. As they filed away, a sharp hand grabbed his shoulder and dragged him to a nearby classroom. When he was released he expected to see Archie, but instead saw...Mycroft?

"Who did it?" Mycroft asked.

"Why do you assume that I know?"

"Your freakish powers! You can deduce anything, why not this?"

Sherlock gave Mycroft a gentle smile, as if he was stupid. "It's obvious. It was that boy who's in Year 7, what's his name...Phoenix Dickens."

"How the bloody hell do you know that?" Mycroft asked his small brother, astonished.

"He told his friend that he didn't do it, but he rubbed his nose while doing it – the classic sign of a liar. Additionally, he had a streak of wood polish on his blazer arm – the only wooden thing that gets polished is sir's desk. Also, he was coughing, and tapping his foot on the ground all the way through his speech – he was nervous and jumpy. Fairly obvious, Mycroft."

"Go and tell the headmaster then, so we don't have to have the detentions? And mother will go mental when she finds out that someone nicked money, and blame it all on us."

"You really are an idiot, Mycroft. If you were a grown man, would you believe an eight year old who came and told you who had stolen £25 with no evidence?"

The fifteen year old pondered over this before replying, "We'll find evidence then."

"I've already found some." replied Sherlock, nonchalantly brushing off his trousers. His brother took him by the shoulders and shook him hard before shouting,

"WHAT?"

"I found one of the five pound notes on the floor. It was right underneath where he was sitting."

"How do you do that?"

"Easily. I observe. Look, I can do you easily. You've got a girlfriend and her name begins with a Z, so probably Zelina Zacharius in the year above you – you can tell from how your fingers are bent, and also from the heart with a Z in it that you have tried to wash off of your hand and failed. You're seeing her tonight – your hair is freshly washed and you've used spot cream. You haven't written to mother yet – when you mentioned her a moment ago your eyebrows were twitching, and you avoided my eyes. You've not been well, these past few days – your handwriting in the writing club was lazy at best and you're remarkably pale. You ate a slice of sponge cake at lunch time – you have a tiny bit of jam smeared just below your lip, but it has hardened into a spot like crust, and your breath clearly smells of it. I could go on."

"I can't quite tell whether you're an idiot or a complete genius." Mycroft replied, slightly at a loss for words.

"Both – I have an IQ of 187, but I can barely remember anything about the Tudors."

"Look, let's just try and find evidence that this boy did it as quickly as possible to avoid all the cleaning."

"Deal."

And so the two boys left the room, each happy once more for a different reason: Sherlock because his mind would get some work, and Mycroft because he was talking to his brother properly.

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><p><strong>Please review - it would mean the world to me :)<strong>


	4. Science, Cases and Brothers

**Pwease review!**

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><p>"Name an acid."<p>

"Sherlock."

A ripple of laughter ran through the class when Stephan Jenkins, a Year 9 student, muttered this about their Year 4 companion. Sherlock sniffed and raised his hand.

"Holmes?"

"It depends on what you classify as an acid. Alkali's, when made to, can show acidic tendencies, and some mild Alkali's may be mildly acidic to an, amoeba say."

"Just answer the bloody question Holmes."

"I just did, sir."

"Don't you argue with me, boy – if I said you didn't, you didn't!"

"If you say I didn't, you're stupid."

This time, a gasp not a giggle ran through the room. Mr Westly, their science teacher, was known for his intolerance of even the slightest cheek. He flushed a dark, ugly red and shouted,

"Here boy!"

Sherlock coolly walked forward, his face masked. If this had happened two years before, he would have let his true emotions run free. He may have cried, even. But his mother had taught him that emotions were weak. His mother hid her emotions behind an icy mask, so he would do the same.

"Hold out your hand."

Sherlock's breathing grew slightly heavier as he unwillingly placed his palm within the stocky man's reach. The man harshly pushed it up further before lifting something from his desk. A ruler. It fell down on Sherlock's hand once, twice, thrice. The hand turned a shocking red, and if Sherlock had been by himself he may have even cried.

"Other hand."

The brutal display was repeated. Sherlock bit his lip: it was painful, very painful, but he couldn't let him known that.

"Sit down, you impudent little worm."

Sherlock, his head held high, sat back in his seat at the back of the room.

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><p>"I've found something." Sherlock told his brother, a small smile playing on his slim lips.<p>

"What?"

"A note from the boy to someone else, detailing the time he would take 'it'."

"Surely that is enough proof."

"No – I have maths with his class tomorrow, y'know, being put forward and all that, so I could speak to him then."

"Try. But if he doesn't say anything, we'll have to go to the headmaster. These detentions are getting in the way of my school work, little brother."

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><p>The next day's maths lesson was lead by a softly spoken, sweet woman in her mid-forties or early fifties, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock managed to have quite a conversation with the money thief.<p>

"Did you hear about the stolen money?"

"Uh, yeah. Real, erm, shame."

"Did you do it?"

"I erm...sort of..yes, I did."

"Why?"

"I, err...I fancied some money for the town trip next weekend, but I've only gone and bloody lost a fifth of it!"

Sherlock quickly turned off the tape recorder he had hidden in his hand and slipped it in his pocket. All the evidence he needed. He sat back in his seat and began to work on his algebra and bisectional lines, smiling widely over the stupidity of others. Case. Solved.

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><p><em>Mother,<em>

_School is well. Mycroft is well. I am well._

_Sherlock Holmes_

The letter was brief and contained everything that his mother would want to know. As he stuffed it in the envelope, he decided to play back the recording to himself and make sure it had worked. The sound was crystal clear, but Sherlock was astounded at his own voice. Plummy, it could be described as.

"Do I really sound like that?" he muttered as he hastily scribbled the address on the envelope.

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><p>"Mycroft, I think we should go and tell the headmaster what we know." Sherlock quietly told his brother. The school-wide detentions that night had just finished, and both brothers had immediately secreted back to the common room where they could do homework.<p>

"Did you have a conversation with him?"

"Yes – I recorded it as well. I'm not an idiot, Mycroft."

"Sir, this recording along with the other information provided should put your mind at ease that it was him who stole it."

The headmaster closely watched the two boys in front of him before suddenly shouting,

"Get out! I'll deal with this myself! You're just two stupid little boys, I don't need you to tell me what to do!"

"Sir, you're being very unreasonable-" Mycroft started. He was cut off by a large, thick book being tossed at his head.

"Out! Before I give you something real to worry about!"

This time the boys left, both feeling disheartened.

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><p>The prefects of each house and year all receive a study together from their year of initiation until they leave St. John's at the start of the year they are made a prefect. Mycroft and the other prefect's study was a small room painted a slightly softened eggshell colour, with a scarlet carpet to show Shark pride. A large table sat against one wall, a fireplace was embedded into the opposite wall. Around the fireplace sat two large comfortable red leather chairs. A soft white rug lies by the fire. A desk is at either end of the room, one for each prefect. On each desk on the first day of term is a booklet. Prefects have the power to give all non-prefect students detentions, lines, essays, and also to take house points. All slips have to be returned to that prefects house office by the end of the day. The room was lovely now that Mycroft and his prefect friend had decorated it. There were paintings by the other prefect framed and hung on the wall, the mantelpiece was a beautifully arranged collection of photographs of family and the odd drawing by Mycroft. A lovely mirror sat above the mantelpiece, which Mycroft and the other prefect had clubbed together and bought. A shelf of books sat under the bay window on the one wall that wasn't connected to another room. The armchairs had cushions on them with beautifully hand embroidered cushions, countesy of the other prefect. On the table sat a large bowl of fruit, a jug of lemonade and some glasses which was constantly refilled by Mycroft, who had something wrong with his liver that made him constantly thirsty, and a jar filled with sweets, much alike to Sherlock's jar in the library.<p>

"Come in Sherlock – she isn't here, she's in the hospital wing."

Sherlock followed his brother in. The study was gorgeous, he had to admit, but he would rather be in the library. Mycroft had insisted that they went to the study 'for privacy to talk'.

"Why was the headmaster so snippy?" Mycroft asked his younger brother.

"Because we outsmarted him. An adult dislikes being beaten in a matter of wits by a child. Of course, the boy will be 'found out' in a few days, and the old man will take all the credit." Sherlock replied. "Obviously."

Mycroft shook his head at his brother. "You're such an idiot with people, yet you can tell precisely what they are feeling, and you're only eight. What is wrong with you, Sherlock."

"I saw my doctors notes last year – Asperger's Syndrome, which is a type of autism, and a sociopath."

"How did you manage that?"

"I sent a letter to the doctors clinic asking to see them, but signed it from mother. They arrived a week later. I've got yours as well."

"What do they say?"

"Overweight." Sherlock gave his brother an innocent smile. Mycroft clocked Sherlock over the head twice, but soon the two brothers were laughing. The two rarely laughed by themselves, and neither could remember a time when they'd laughed at the same thing together. But it was nice. Brotherly love. Something neither had experienced before - Sherlock had never experienced any family love at all, and Mycroft only in small doses before his father died.

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><p><strong>Please review - I'll love you forever!<strong>


	5. Suspended

**By the way – I know Mycroft is out of character as we know him. That is part of the plot – something is going to happen later on to change that :) Sorry if I confused you all! Please review, and thank you to the person who did, cybercookies to you!**

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><p>A small boy sat in the library, watching Sherlock. He was the size of his six year old, his his facial features suggested that he was eight or nine.<p>

"Excuse me miss, I'm new, a Year 4. Do you know anyone in my year who I can try and make friends with? I only started today, I've been ill." he asked the librarian politely.

"That boy over there, on the shelf. He's called Sherlock, and I think you'd get on."

"Thank you, miss."

The small boy walked over to the shelf, and with great difficulty hoisted himself up. Sherlock didn't seem to realise he had appeared, so he softly coughed. Nothing.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped violently. "What the bloody hell do you want?" he sharply asked, slamming his book shut.

"I, err, I'm new-"

"I can tell – your uniform is beyond neat, but I can see mud on the shoes...perhaps you have gone to a great effort to keep it clean? And your hair has been combed rather repetitively – your scalp is showing sign of stress and your hair is impeccable. You're trying to keep nice, but you're not a naturally neat person so you're struggling."

"Whoa, how did you do that?" gaped the smaller boy.

"Deductions are easy to make. Now please go, John Watson."

"How did you know my name...?"

Sherlock responded by pushing John in the chest. It wasn't a hard push, but John was tiny for an eight year old and he fell straight off of the top of the broad bookshelf, and right down the ten foot to the floor. He landed with a sickening thud.

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><p>Sherlock stared at the slats of the upper bunk, his mind wondering over the last two hours: pushing that John boy, helping to carry him to the hospital wing along with the librarian, being sent to the headmaster, being caned, being given two weeks of detentions (the detentions for the thief had stopped – 'miraculous' evidence had proved the boy), being sent to his dorm. Rather a jam packed two hours. He wasn't sorry that he'd pushed him, merely that he'd pushed him so hard. Fourteen detentions would be monotonous, but they would pass relatively quickly. John had only cracked a rib and suffered from concussion for a while, so he was fine. The caning was harsh at seven strokes, but the wounds would heal. It was all okay, in Sherlock's eyes.<p>

* * *

><p>Mycroft couldn't help laughing when he heard what his younger brother had done. Pushing someone from a shelf...he was utterly amused. His brother had pushed someone ten foot, essentially a height someone could die from, because they were <em>annoying him<em>. He was so like mother it was untrue, but in a funny kind of way, not a cold, calculating, sly way. He was very much like their older sister, Darcy. Darcy had died when Mycroft was six, a year before Sherlock was born. She had been nine, and had died from a type of cancer called melanoma. Sherlock wasn't aware of her: their mother had cleansed the house of all traces of her when she died.

* * *

><p><em>To Mrs Holmes,<em>

_We are sorry to inform you that your son, Sherlock Holmes, was involved in an incident involving him pushing another boy down ten feet._

_We request your presence at a meeting on Friday 30th of September at 2:30 to discuss your son's behaviour. Please report to main office and show the receptionist-on-duty this letter – someone will be sent to fetch you._

_~ The Staff of St. Johns_

* * *

><p>Grace read the letter with a sigh. She got letters complaining about Sherlock on a regular basis – at least once per half term. She was grateful they didn't kick him out. But his exam results were so high if they did the whole school standard would drop.<p>

* * *

><p>"Because of the serious nature of Sherlock's offence, we have suggested him for a fixed seven day suspension."<p>

"Please, headmaster, please reconsider-"

"Miss Holmes, if it wasn't for your son's excellent marks and him submitting to other punishment he would have been expelled!" replied the headmaster softly. He was doing a remarkable impression of someone with a brain.

"Please, sir?" She felt tears brimming in her eyes: her youngest child, suspended? But she brushed them away and gripped her hands into fists: no, emotions were weak.

"Sherlock will leave now, please?"

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for a short one – the next chapter is important and will be a lot longer than usual, so stew and wait for that ;)<strong>


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